Would You Do It For A Scooby Snack?/ Serious question time UPDATE

We have this magnet up on our fridge.  It's a Scooby Doo magnet.  It dates back to before the kids were born.   Well before.  It was a simpler time.  An experimental time.  A time in my life when "passing a piss test" meant "not taking a piss test."

I had to stop all that for a job as a mailman though, and then the babies came, and so that was that.  Now, I often forget that that magnet is up there.

So imagine my surprise when the peanut came downstairs, sat in her chair at the kitchen table, and asked, "Daddy, can you get me close to some Scooby Doobies?"  

"Can I get you close to some Scooby Doobies?" I exclaimed.

My wife burst out laughing.

I thought I wasn't going to have to have that conversation until she was at least 16.  And preferably never.

Zoikes.

**************************************

Another thing.

My tiny, baby daughter visits her great aunt for a few hours about one evening a week.  She loves it.  They bake, and sing songs, and color, and dance, and play dress up, and eat, and bathe.   All the things I'm too busy blogging to bother with, basically.

Two weeks ago, when I picked her up at her great aunt's house. my tiny, innocent, baby daughter had teeny weeny, eensy weensy, pink polished toenails.  Her great-aunt (my wife's aunt) had painted them.  I was displeased.  I showed it in my face and tone, though I didn't make a big deal out of it.  Because, it isn't really a big deal, right?

The next day, the great-aunt emailed my wife and asked if she'd seen the toes.  My wife said yes, and then wrote words to the effect that the toes were ok, but that the great-aunt was absolutely not to do anything more drastic.  Haircut, pierced ears, etc.

This had to be spelled out, because in my wife's family, it's traditional for the grandparents in the family, in our case this role is being partially fulfilled by the great aunt, to do whatever the hell they want to the grandkids.  My wife's grandmother took her to get her ears pierced when she was one and a half without asking.  Her grandfather used to shave the heads of the boys in the family all the time.  Make-up, hair dyeing, teeth whitening, tattoos, plastic surgery, hair plugs, botox, high tech-fake fingerprints, tinted contacts. . . there is even a cousin with a cybernetic third limb.  3 Legge'd Steve, we call him.  Nothing was off limits.

I went to pick the peanut up at the great-aunt's house the other night.  This time she has teeny weeny, eensy weensy, pink fingernails.  A little pushy, right?  Like the aunt is playing a game of "I'm not touching you."

This time my wife wasn't happy either.  The toes were ok with her, but not the fingers.  She decided in the end though that the polish comes off, so no harm, no foul.  I'm still worried because a little part of me is afraid that the great-aunt will continue to push her luck.

Can I ask you guys, would any of you have a problem with this?  Am I being way uptight?  I just don't think my little girl needs those sorts of gender markers this early in life.  Does this make me a douche-bag?  Oversensitive?  A prick?  An ivory tower asshole?  Merely an overprotective dad?  None of the above?

Thanks guys


HM


This post brought to you by Fatherhood Fridays at dad-blogs.com


Thanks for all the thoughtful comments you guys.  I really appreciate it.  Most of you folks have been really kind and honest and cool.  Couple of you--meh.  I mean, seriously.  Meh.  I'm not saying who.  Don't try to find out.  Now, I'm shaking my head.  Now, I'm getting excited because the coffee is almost ready.  Now, I'm blowing my nose.  Allergies.

Also, in the interest of fairness, he great aunt is really very loving and wonderful with the Peanut.  They love each other like crazy.  Finally, I'm writing this at 5:51 am before I've had coffee.  I take no responsibility for typos or anything else.  Thanks again everyone.

HM

Cereal Killers and Mean, mean babies.

We bought some frosted flakes for the kids.  Doctor’s orders.  They need a small sweet starch to combat their Vomitosis (possibly an actual medical term?  Like, what you call it when you get bad breath from puking a lot.  Vomitosis).

They’ve never had frosted flakes, so I bought the store brand.  There is a polar bear on the box.  They won’t eat them.  No one is eating them.  I forgot my wife told me to pick something I would eat.  We had this conversation in the car yesterday morning:

Me: No one is eating those frosted flakes. 

Her:  They don’t like them?

Me:  I’m not eating them either.  No one is eating them.

Her: Why aren’t you eating them?

Me: Because they’re not the real Frosted Flakes.

Her:  I told you to get something you would eat.

Me:  Yeah but they’re not--

Her:  You said you would--

Me:  They have a bear on them.  Bears can’t make frosted flakes. Tigers make frosted flakes.  Bears do not make frosted flakes.  That’s ridiculous.  They can’t be good.  And, it’s a polar bear!  Might as well put a walrus on there.

Her:  How do you know if you don’t taste them?

Me:  They probably taste like stupid.

This is not to say that I don’t or won’t eat off brand cereal.  Ate it all growing up.  I think our version of Fruit Loops had a seagull on it. It might’ve been a vulture.  Or a buzzard.  Frooty Buzzard Hoops. 

I did come home and eat a bowl.  They tasted like penguins.  Stupid polar bear.  Stick to ice cream.

Also, a plea for help:  My daughter has emerged from the chrysalis (no spell check!) of her sickness.  Where once she was a lovely and potty-trained caterpillar, she is now an angry, shit covered butterfly.  She’s regressed in her potty training.

Standing in living room :  “(mildly) Daddy, I pooped.  I've got poop in my underwear.”

And, her attitude has me considering volunteering her to the Iranian space program as a cheap alternative to monkeys.  She apparently got a little spoiled during her illness. 

Anyone have any ideas on how to deal with this sort of attitude shift?

Thanks in advance,

HM

One Cheeseball Removed From Death

I'm dieting.  Or should I say I'm, "making a major lifestyle change."  No, I shouldn't because then I'd sound like a fuck face, but it is essentially true.  I went to the doctor for allergy meds and came back with high cholesterol.  Higher than a hippie at Burning Man.  Higher than a frat boy at a Dave Matthews concert. It had to be calculated by a team consisting of NASA and a robot Val Kilmer circa Real Genius.  It was pretty high.

Let me put it this way:  If you were to look at a cross section of one of my veins right now, it'd look like this

Pic lifted from www.tacobell.com

Yup.  My vascular system is a Beefy 5 Layer Burrito.  I have a hidden layer of nacho cheese oozing through my arteries.

No offense to Taco bell.  It's been the gorging of myself on many of their fine products throughout the years that has helped me to reach this yellow, waxy, greasy, pinnacle.  I was 16 years old when that love affair started.  I spent the summer with a daily allotment of 5 bucks.   That 5 bucks had to buy me train fare to and from and lunch.  I was always full after lunch.  I fell head over heels in love.  Thanks Taco Bell.  You murderous bitch.  I hate you now.  Call me?

Speaking of murderous bitches, I also have a genetic proclivity to high cholesterol.  My maternal grandfather died of heart disease and diabetes and when they did the autopsy, they found a wheel of cheese where his heart should've been.  Smoked Gouda.  The ol' man had taste.  And some truly shitty genes.  Nice one, maternal family.

I've had to change my diet fairly drastically.  The worst part is, I know how to eat healthy.  My wife had gestational diabetes and I did the diet with her and I lost weight and felt really good.   It's just that ever since the Pumpkin man was born, I've pretty much been like, "What's that?  A fried cheese pig?  Dibs!"

And I don't even like pork.   It's the cheese.  Its possible I'd eat a dick if the words "fried cheese" came first.  Not definite, but possible.

Also, I have to exercise.  1/2 hour of an activity akin to jogging at least thrice (fuck face alert!) a week.

I think I'll probably end up getting a bicycle and riding it off a cliff.  I'm kidding of course.  I can't ride a bike.

And I have to take anti-cholesterol pills.  I'm 62 at 37.

So that's where that's all at.

As far as Mother's Day goes well . . . The Peanut is still suffering the lingering effects of the stomach flu and her brother decided to join the party.  Because he's thoughtful, he has thus (F.F.A. #2!) far restricted all explosive protein ejections to the rear exit.

And the poor mommy herself starting feeling unwell half way through the day.  Sorry honey.  Even sick you are the ass-kicking-est mommy ever.

Alright, that's it happy Mom's day night/ Monday morning everybody.

In good health,

Homemaker Man

Infant Tylenol/Motrin Recall

For those that don't know it, there has been a recall on the infant and children's versions of Tylenol, Motrin, Zyrtec, and Benedryl.  You can find more info here.  Look for the NDC number located above the Product name on both the bottle and the box.  We had half to three quarter empty bottles of the Tylenol and Motrin.  I'm pissed.  It's a voluntary recall.  I don't understand how that's possible.  Fucking Dumb Asses.  Also, hey Johnson and Johnson, blow me.


No one is known to have fallen ill due to the products, but still.  it was made on dirty machines, essentially.

This week: Mobility and Vomit. Good times.

This week, these things happened:

Peanut got her first stomach virus.  I think she got it off ebay.  It was like the pie eating scene from Stand By Me up in this piece.  My favorite part was when she was laying on her side and I asked if she was feeling better and she answered in the affirmitave thusly:  Mm hmm . . . mm mmBLGHGHAAHRGHLLGL.

She's feeling much better today.  To whit:

The Peanut, moving in circles, Real time:  "These are the keys to open the gate.  Can you open the gate.  Ok Look.  Ok.  This is baby Jaguar(hands me Jaguar)!  She's a cat.  Daaddy!!!  There's keys to open the gate!  Looook!!"  There are so many exclamation points in her world.  I can spare two or three a week, tops.  Then I'm all out.  The gate, by the way, is a plastic janitor's cart we got her last christmas.  Why a janitor's cart?  Because we want her to reach for the stars, baby.  Aim high, my little one.  Aim high.

The Pumpkin man is finally walking more than crawling.  The douche.  Kid's been able to scale a 5 foot cat tree for a month and a half and crawls faster than a Segway, but he's just now pulling the walking thing together.

I was so proud when he was doing it at play group.  I couldn't understand why all the other parents weren't giving him a riotous round of applause and carrying him around on their shoulders and ticker tape and a key to the city and an endorsement deal with Nike.  A commercial like the recent one with Tiger Woods and his dad except it would be the P-man, shot in black and white, staring into the camera and my voice in the background just going "No.  No!  Get down!  Get Down now! No  Give me that.  Ple--would you--Jesu--ok. Thank you . . . No!"  He often exhausts my weekly supply of exclamation points.

In closing, this morning's conversation with my wife:

Her (peering in the fish tank)  Whoa.  Look at the snail.  Is something wrong?  It looks weird.

Me:  (Looking) Oh, whoa.

Her:  It looks weird right?

Me:  Mm.  I've seen this before.  It's not good

Her:  What is it?

Me:  I think it has Snaids.

Her:  HAW.  You jerk.

Me:  Or maybe it's Snancer.  Or Snupus.

Her: So you're saying you think it's fine?

Me:  Maybe it's Snou Gehrig's disease?

Her: Alright.

Me:  It's probably just a bad case of the Snu.  Ooh, wait.   I think it's Snerpes.


This was at 6:20 in the morning.  And this woman continues to stay married to me.  Go figure.

In closing even more, I got to feel what it's like to be considered a super hero today.  Maybe even a god.  From the backseat of the car, the Peanut said, "Daddy, the sun's in my eyes. The sun is in my eyes daddy."

Me:  "Ok honey, I know.  Hold on".

Her:  "Daddy, turn it off.  Turn off the sun."

Me:  (as we approached a tunnel)  "No problem, honey."

Sweet.

That's the weekly update, stream of consciousness edition:

Your pal,

Homemaker Man

This post brought to you be Fatherhood Friday at dad-blogs.com.

Keys

We had a play date yesterday.  With a nice little 3 year-old boy and his stay-at-home dad.  It was our first play date with these folks, who are very nice and who also happen to be fairly new to the U.S. by way of India. As such we wanted to be prompt, polite and fun.  Make them feel comfortable and avoid being the Ugly Americans.

We agreed on a time.  High Noon, playground, swings.  "No, slide first, THEN swings.  No, swings first." The Peanut was in charge of the scheduling.  We were at least a half hour late.  As for polite, the Peanut refused to say hi to anyone until I threatened to leave for home.  As for fun, it took me about 6 minutes to get involved in a debate about whether the current administration's policies for jump starting the economy are Communist.  Go U.S.A.  Land of the douche, home of the bag.  I suck

Where the wheels first came off was when we were trying to leave the house.  I couldn't find my keys.  They were just gone.  This is a big deal.

It used to happen to me all the time, losing my kets.  I thought I had a handle on it . . .

Losing my keys is a process.  I start like everyone else.

 "Shit," I thought mildly, "Where are my keys?"  I looked on the table, the bookcase, the kitchen table, my pockets.  No dice.  Looked on the counter, the changing table, baby bag, on the chair.  Nothing.  Now, I start to get nervous.  "Fuck," I mutter, "What did I do with my keys?"  This part happens every time.  Now I have to look in the crazy places.  Because for me, "what did I do with my keys?" is a question with infinite answers.

I check the door knob.  No.  My pockets again.  No.  My coat pocket.  No.  Under the couch, on the ground outside, in a basket of laundry.  No, no, no.  They could be anywhere.  Literally anywhere.  I once left my keys in a snowbank.

"Fuck!"  I growl, where are my fucking keys?  I check the refrigerator, the inside of the stove, pants I haven't worn in three days, my sock drawer, my wife's sock drawer, the fucking trash.  No, no, no, NO.

Sometimes, I put them in places I think I will remember because they are odd and I am oh so clever.  "I know, I'll seal these up in a white envelope, put a stamp on it, write phone bill on the front, and put them in the pile of outgoing bills.  I'll know what I mean."

I check the box of envelopes, my coat pocket again, my pants pocket.  Again.  I check the peanut's pants, the Pumpkin Man's chair,  the dog's bed. NONONONONO!  I'm swearing freely now.  I stop to whine to my daughter, "Honey, where are daddy's keys?  Have you seen them sweetie?"  She regards me soberly and continues to gnaw on her chocolate munchkin' .  "Sweeeetie, daddy's keys, have you seen them?"  Silence.

I check inside the car ( left unlocked) , the litter box, the kitchen cabinets, inside a jar of peanut butter, the top of the washer which is in the basement which I hadn't been in that day, the inside of the washer and the dryer.  In a box of still packed christmas ornaments.  No.  Inside the dog's bunghole?  Well, that's just stupid . . . and no.

Maybe if I just take a moment and stop.  Stop and breath and look deep inside myself, that's where I'll really find my ke . . . Ahh Fuck!  We're already late and there's nothing in there anyway except for some Doritos and an old Moonlighting rerun.  

Back upstairs, I ask my daughter one more time.  Again, she regards me stonily.  I sink to the floor on elbows and knees, thinking maybe they got kicked under the rug, fell between the floorboards, I'll find a wormhole . . . ?

Nothing.

I am so close to admitting defeat when from the kitchen I hear it.  That unmistakable key sound.  Jingle jingle.  I scrabble in, sweaty, disheveled,  un-tucked.  Mentally I mean.  Not my shirt. My shirt had come flying off 15 minutes before that when I suddenly realized the keys could be stuck in my belly button or lodged under a love handle.  No.  So I crawl madly into the kitchen and there is the Peanut, picking my keys up off the floor.   "Great job Peanut!"  I exclaim, joyously.  "Where did you find them?"

"In the box," she says, like I'm a moron.  There is a small, toy/activity box in the kitchen that she uses when I'm in there cooking.  Someone had put the keys in there.  Could've been either one of us.  It was probably her though.  I never put those things away in a sensible place.

The play date actually went pretty well in the end.   We'll hang out again and everyone left smiling.

Does anyone know where I can take organization lessons?

Homemaker Man

This is a recycled post.  The Peanut is feeling a little under the weather today.  Oh and, P.S.  We uh, we never did have a second play date with that SAHD and his nice little boy.  Sigh.

Water

Here in my little part of the Northeast US, there was a large water main break.  2 million people are under a boil water order.  We're four of them.

Boil before drinking.  Bleach before using for cleaning.  Or maybe vice versa.  It's safe for adults to shower but of course with the 2 toddlers who like to drink their bath water, "Mmm, tastes like baby rectum,"  they have to be bathed with the boiled (not boiling.  Little parenting tip there.  You live, you learn) stuff.

As a consequence, the kids are getting incredibly grubby.  I mean, I'm pretty sure if they were restaurants, they'd be shut down by the Board of Health at this point.  I'm going to wait and see how long it takes for the two of them to get so disgusting they stick together.  Convenient!

It's a lot of work to keep up with all those pots of water, you know?  I need it for coffee.

We're getting some conflicting info from the authorities.  On the one hand, the state tells us that while we have to boil the water, if we were to drink a little straight from the tap, it'd likely be no worse than swallowing a little lake water while swimming. On the other hand, they're saying that not only should we be drinking boiled water, but we should be giving it to our pets as well.  Seriously?  All I'm saying is that I have a Boxer that I love very much.  I' ve seen this dog drink water that'd make fungus puke.   I'm pretty sure that she, when slightly thirsty, would slurp water from a bum's asshole.  
I think I'm not worried about her drinking a little "lake water."

We were able to procure some bottled water at our local BJ's.  The lines were long and they are rationing.  There have been incidents in some locations.  I was not involved in more than one of them.  Let me just say for posterity, "No Buts (back cuts) in the water rationing line, thank you."

One local town (Medford MA)  was giving away free water.  Someone from my town rode two buses for an hour for one case of bottled water.  They were turned away.

Automated phone warnings went out to the residents of each city via that city's emergency warning system.  We got ours from the city of _______ because that's where my wife works.  We're still waiting on a call from our home town.

All in all, considering the scope of this water emergency--mild--and the way people are acting--kind of crappy-- I've realized it might be time to build that safe house up in the Maine woods.  If things are going  this badly now, I don't think we want to be hanging around when the shit really hits the fan (i.e zombies, germ warfare, Corporate Hegemony, Grand Dictator Justin Bieber, Socialism, Jew Revolution (Revojewtion), etc.  I don't know exactly what it's going to be.)

As a family however, we're holding it together pretty well.  Now I just have to figure out how to convince my wife that a "no laundry order" was issued while she was in work.  I'll say I got a phone call from the city.


Bemused and needing a shower,

Homemaker Man